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Here, the colors of the season
are blue and green and amber,
as are every season’s colors
here.

Cobalt ribbon, naked sky;
verdant palms in liquid mirrors;
yellow sunlight warming skin, insolent and
bare.

The white-bark tree, alone, recalls
the winter months. A token tree
and I — transplanted in this strange, dry soil —
remember

red and orange, yellow flame.
Kindling leaves to hail the year,
it shows them, sheds them, waits for
spring.

While I rekindle faces,
letting shadows trace the wall
with words and places, everything
again, that brings me to
December.

The sun, now at its farthest south,
and I, far west, each find
strange frost, strange warmth, strange strength
out here

where winter’s shades are blue and green,
where, reaching up to cobalt skies,
I’m planting roots
this year.

© Deborah Edler Brown 1993

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